Beckham

by David Beckham

  Before the game, I took one look around and knew I was wrong. We were as ready for Denmark as we had been for Argentina. The players’ faces and their body language were just right: no fear, no distractions, no tension. Everyone was focused, waiting for kick-off, more relaxed than I’d ever seen an England team. Niigata was another new stadium for us, but the lads looked like it had only taken the previous evening’s training session to make it feel like home. An atmosphere like that amongst players takes on a life of it’s own, You look at your mate; he looks like he’s up for it. So does your team-mate next to him. And you’re radiating confidence yourself by the time the look falls on you. It’s an energy that runs through a dressing room in the minutes before kick-off. That afternoon, I knew we were set.

  As we came up the tunnel and out on the field, I found myself looking at Denmark’s players instead of my team-mates. The way they walked, eyes darting backwards and forwards: you could sense how nervous they were. It maybe wasn’t fear exactly, but it was something like it: no self-belief. We had a psychological advantage. The tough guys like Thomas Gravesen and Stig Tofting were doing their best, marching round and growling, as if to say they were up for the scrap. That just made it more obvious that a lot of the other Danish players looked like they didn’t welcome it at all. It wasn’t only me who noticed. While we were warming up, Rio called across to me.

  ‘What do you reckon? They look scared.’

  I think we had Denmark beaten before we’d even kicked off. Which was just as well: it was the one time all summer that the injury really gave me grief during a game. My foot had been feeling better and better, almost by the day. Against Denmark, though, I wore boots with an ordinary long stud. It was pouring with rain in Niigata, so I didn’t have any choice. Until then, most of the discomfort had been on top of the metatarsal, but that night the pain was all underneath my foot. It felt like the studs were pushing up into the injury every time I pushed down to run or strike the ball, twisting the fracture every time I tried to turn.

  The pain in my foot didn’t stop me enjoying the game, though. The first twenty minutes, especially, were fantastic. We played like we didn’t have a care in the world, even in a winner-takes-all game at a major tournament. Five minutes in, I put over a corner. Rio got his head to it but nobody was sure until afterwards that he got the goal because the ball hit a post, then their keeper, and finally Emile Heskey jabbed it in again when it bounced back out. I even thought about claiming it myself at the time. But I’m really glad the video replays gave it to Rio. He’s such a good guy to have in the dressing room and, out on the field, he had a fantastic World Cup. Getting on the score sheet was the least he deserved from the summer.

  Fifteen minutes later, Michael scored the second and that seemed like game over. Denmark got themselves into some good positions but we went up the other end just before half-time and Emile got his goal. The heat had worn us down against Nigeria in Osaka. The rain was just what we’d needed in Niigata. It quickened the field up, which is something that suits the way Sven wants England to play. 3–0 was just fine, all anyone could have asked for. And against a team who’d qualified for the second phase at France’s expense. I’d have been jumping up and down afterwards, celebrating advancing to the last eight, except my foot was killing me. By the end of the game, I’d been getting cramp in it because I was running with my boot angled to one side to try and take the pressure off the sole. The rest of me was in much better form, though. I felt fresher against Denmark than I had at any time since coming back from the fracture. And, afterwards, I had the satisfaction of knowing I’d been much more involved: I’d been part of the build-up to all three England goals.

  So it was Brazil in the quarter-finals: win that game and we’ll win the World Cup. I know, back home, people were starting to take it very seriously. England were contenders. In the past, high expectations have put pressure on the national team. In Japan in 2002, though, our supporters weren’t thinking anything that me and the other players weren’t already thinking ourselves. Argentina? Out. The defending champions, France? Out. Italy? Out. Portugal? Out. The Dutch? Not even there. Who was left in? Of the teams with a World Cup history, it came down to two: Germany, who we’d beaten 5–1 in Munich to get to the finals, and Brazil. We couldn’t wait for Friday afternoon and Shizuoka.

  Our only worry was Michael Owen. For a change, the fuss was about his groin instead of my foot, although I don’t remember many people, even inside the England camp, being aware of how close he was to missing the Brazil game. He was struggling with a groin strain, the kind of injury that feels worse and worse each time you play through it. Liverpool would have rested him for a couple of weeks during a Premiership season but Michael was so vital to England: a world-class player who always came up with his best on the biggest occasions. Any team in the tournament would have done everything they could to have him fit enough to start.

  We certainly weren’t scared of Brazil. The game was an afternoon kick-off, which meant they would probably have an advantage if the conditions were anything like they had been for our game against Nigeria. We trained at the stadium the evening before and it absolutely bucketed down. We all knew that the same again the following day would give us a really great chance. In the hotel later on, I felt like I should build a little shrine to the local weather gods and pray, before going to bed, for more rain. No such luck: I jumped out of bed on the Friday morning and pulled open the curtains. The sun was already high in the sky, beating down on a beautiful day. My heart sank: we were going to have to do this the hard way after all.

  I’d never think of using the weather as an excuse. You take what you’re given and then go and play your best anyway. Even so, enough people had been saying that, if it was hot, England might struggle. I’ve wondered since if it got into our heads. A tiny doubt is sometimes all it takes to undermine players’ confidence. Before the game, we went out onto the field for ten minutes or so but then came inside to do our main warm-up. The Japanese found a big enough office for us to stretch in. It wasn’t ideal. And Michael was getting massaged right up to us going out onto the field. It was a close call, but he played. People know all about what Michael does but he’s also tougher than anybody outside the dressing room will ever know. I’d had my time with Richard Smith, the masseur, so I understood exactly what Michael went through to make sure he could start. He wasn’t going to miss Brazil for the world.

  We started the game really well in Niigata. If the heat was bothering us, it didn’t seem to show. We didn’t wait for their players to get into any kind of rhythm. Do that and a team like Brazil can have the game won before you’ve even started to play. We knew we had to defend as a team when they were in possession. We couldn’t let them get two-on-one against our players anywhere. When we did have the ball, the job was simple enough: don’t give it away and get it into their half quickly. Everyone knows the Brazilians like to let their defenders get forward in open play. We knew we had the players to hit them back on the counterattack. Our concentration seemed excellent and, although they had a couple of early chances—Dave Seaman had to save one Roberto Carlos free-kick—there wasn’t anything going on to worry us.

  Don’t make mistakes. Wait for the other lot to make theirs. There were just over twenty minutes gone when Brazil lost possession in our third of the field. Emile Heskey got the ball on halfway and, ahead of him, he saw Michael starting to make a run across his defender. Emile hit his pass thirty-odd yards towards the corner of the Brazilian penalty area. It looked as if the central defender, Lucio, would bring the ball down and clear. I don’t know if he caught sight of Michael and was half-worried about a challenge, but Lucio definitely took his eye off the ball. Instead of controlling it, he let it bounce down and away from him into Michael’s path. Great strikers don’t stand still. They’re already moving, expecting to get their chance before anyone else sees there’s anything on. Michael pushed the ball away and ran into the box. You knew, groin injury or not, Michael was never go
ing to be caught once he was through. And because he’d been surprised by what happened, the keeper, Marcos, didn’t come off his line until it was too late. Michael just had to steady himself and dink his shot beyond the keeper and into the far corner. One-nil. I was forty yards away. It was like watching it on television. Michael Owen’s scoring for England against Brazil. I don’t believe this is happening. I hope the video’s recording.

  If it had remained 1–0 at half-time, I genuinely believe England might have won the World Cup. But Brazil are some team. Never mind the ability: they’re completely fearless with it. Being a goal down didn’t throw them out of their stride at all. Nothing was going to change their approach to the game. With any team other than Brazil, if you get a lead, you expect it to force your opponents to push forwards and start taking risks. Not them, though: they’re the best in the world and they know it; and that’s the way they play every game anyway.

  About five minutes before the end of the half, Roberto Carlos had a shot which took a deflection. Dave Seaman jumped to catch the ball and hurt his neck, falling backwards. It didn’t look good. There was a chance he’d have to go off. I looked away from Dave and the trainer, Gary Lewin, for a moment. Ronaldo was standing with the referee, Ramos Rizo, talking about something. And then he started laughing and put his arm round Rizo’s shoulder. He looked like this was him and a few mates enjoying a Wednesday night kickabout down at the local park, without a care in the world. How can you be doing that, 1–0 down at the World Cup? This isn’t over. This isn’t anywhere near being over.

  Dave Seaman got up and carried on. The treatment had taken a while. If we’d played straight through, we’d have been in the dressing room by the time Brazil equalized. As it was, we were just waiting for the whistle. I remember the ball coming towards me on the touchline, just inside their half. It was from a Brazilian player who’d been looking to pass to Roberto Carlos but hit it with his shin. I was sure it was going out for an England throw which, seconds from half-time, would have been better for us than having the ball in open play. By the time Danny Mills had come forward to take it, the 45 would have been up. Roberto Carlos slid in with a tackle. I jumped in the air to let his momentum take the ball over the touchline, for our throw. Somehow, Carlos got a foot round it to keep it in play. And I was out of the game. They broke from halfway, played round Scholesy’s challenge and got it to Ronaldhino twenty yards outside our penalty area. He had a trick to throw Ashley Cole off balance. He ran at Rio and then played a pass to his right to Rivaldo. In his stride, with no backlift, Rivaldo took the shot so early that Dave Seaman and the covering defenders didn’t have a chance to get in the way. It couldn’t have been a worse time for us to let in a goal.

  Instead of going back into the cool of the dressing room on a high, with a lead to defend or to build on, the momentum had been snatched away from us. The looks on the England players’ faces said it all. We’re exhausted. We’ve got nothing left.

  It was the story of our World Cup. We played our best soccer in the first half of games and then ran out of steam after half-time. I’m not sure how much was physical and how much was mental. I do know Rivaldo’s goal killed us in Shizuoka. And I don’t think there’s anything that could have been said or done in the break to change that. Sven went round talking to players whose shoulders were sagging, whose heads were down. When he spoke to the whole team, he went straight to the point:

  ‘We’ve played well. We should be winning 1–0. We’ve got to tidy things up, make sure we don’t give away silly goals, and then we’ll get our chance.’

  Sven’s never been a shouter, a manager to jump up and down. He may not be passionate in the way of an Alex Ferguson or a Martin O’Neill, but he’s just as single-minded about winning matches as they are. Sven’s passion and intensity come through in a different way. He’s not about frightening players or shaking them up. He’s about inspiring them, giving them confidence, making them desperate to play. His approach has worked for him throughout a career in the club scene and you only have to look at his record in competitive matches to see that it’s working with England as well. Steve McClaren worked hard in those twenty minutes too. I know Sven thought a lot of him and that meant Steve was as free to get his points across as the manager. In any dressing room, a coach or a manager can’t give players what they haven’t got: the job is to make them find what they need inside themselves. In Shizuoka, you could have looked for a spark but you wouldn’t have found one. There just wasn’t anything there.

  We came out for the second half with our belief and our energy drained away. It was like Sweden all over again: we sat back, couldn’t keep possession and couldn’t get forward. When your legs go, your head goes too. But that works the other way round as well. It was well over 100 degrees down on the field that afternoon and trying to keep your concentration fixed was like trying not to screw your eyes up in the sun: we hadn’t a chance. The knock we’d taken in conceding the goal had given Brazil all the lift they needed. They came out for the rest of the game playing as if winning was just a matter of time. We’d no excuses and I don’t believe there was anything we could have done differently, by way of preparation, which would have made that second half turn out any other way. Brazil just got stronger and stronger the hotter it got: we’d had the life squeezed out of us by the end of the game.

  Even so, it took something very weird to beat us. There wasn’t an England player who gave up, although when things happen like they did in the fiftieth minute that afternoon you do start thinking: this isn’t going to be our day. Brazil won a free-kick, almost forty yards out and to the left of our penalty area. We organized to defend against a cross. From that position, you wouldn’t even think of the player taking a shot.

  I was standing fifteen yards away from Ronaldhino, looking straight at him. The moment he struck the ball I could see he’d shanked it: it was a cross that had gone wrong and was heading too near to the goal. It happened so slowly, as if the ball was having to force its way through the heat to get to where it was going. As I watched it arc over my head towards the far post, there was time for all the possibilities to run through my mind: It’s going behind. It’s into Dave’s arms. It’s wide. Finally: This could go in here. It’s not going to, surely….

  There was an eerie silence as the ball spun beyond Dave Seaman and dropped over his head but under the bar. At the time, I was certain it was a fluke. Watching it again since, I’m not so sure. Definitely there wasn’t another player on the field, on either side, who’d had the faintest idea it might happen. Even before the disappointment of conceding the goal sank in, the thought crossed my mind. Dave Seaman’s going to get hammered for this. If we lose, it will have been me in 1998, Phil in 2000, and Dave in 2002, the same stuff all over again.

  When I’d first joined up with England six years ago, Dave Seaman had been one of the players who actually put himself out to try to make me feel welcome. Ever since, shooting practice against Dave, and the banter that went with it, has been my favorite part of England training sessions. The last person in the world who deserved abuse for us failing against Brazil was Dave Seaman. Right then, in Shizuoka, I wanted to go up and put my arms around him, tell him everything would be all right. It wasn’t the time, though. We were 2–1 down to Brazil. There were forty minutes to go.

  I don’t think many people watching could see us getting back into it. Out there playing, I never really felt like there was an equalizer in us. When Ronaldhino got sent off for launching himself at Danny Mills, you could sense the crowd in the stadium—the England supporters, anyway—were thinking this was our chance: eleven against ten. The extra man actually worked against us. Brazil, with a full team, would never change how they play. Once they were ahead, they kept pushing on, looking for a third goal. While that was happening, at least we knew there was the possibility of another mistake, like Lucio’s in the first half, if we could get the ball forward on the break. Once Ronaldhino went, though, they decided to defend and protect the le
ad. We didn’t have enough energy left to force the pace of the game, which was what they were letting us do for the last half an hour. There was no way now we were going to catch them short of players at the back: when they needed to, Brazil proved they could defend with the best of them. Our one half chance, when Teddy, on as a sub, got fouled on the edge of their box, came and went when the ref didn’t give the free-kick. A free-kick had seemed like the only way we’d be likely to score since half-time.

  Even after I’d watched them go on to turn over Germany in the final, the thought that we’d been knocked out by the world champions, the best team in the tournament by far, wasn’t much by way of consolation. I thought we missed out that afternoon on a real chance of winning the World Cup. And so did all the other England players. With all due respect to Brazil, it wasn’t like we’d lost the game so much as handed it over; and that was a horrible feeling. We were all down. Devastated. Dave Seaman was standing in the center circle looking like the loneliest man in the world, never mind that he was surrounded by other England players. I went over and put an arm over his shoulder, spoke into his ear, his head bent in towards me.

  ‘Don’t worry about this, Dave. You’ve had an unbelievable tournament. You’ve kept us in games to get us this far. You had no chance: the goal was a freak. Forget about it. Don’t let people see you like this now.’

  Dave didn’t say anything. I remembered what I’d needed in the dressing room in Saint-Etienne. I remembered Tony Adams being the one who’d been there for me. Here, now, I couldn’t be inside Dave’s head in those moments but I felt like I knew what he needed from a team-mate: